Midnight Faeries
by FigmentOfEternity
Summary: Hermione Granger is entering her second year of Healer training when she picks up an interesting side job at a place called The Midnight Club, where no one knows who she is - including a changed Draco Malfoy. DM/HG, rated M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Greetings! This is just the start of something, kind of the introduction chapter more than anything else. I've disregarded the epilogue while writing it, I hope you don't mind. The rating is because I'm not sure what will happen in future chapters.

Disclaimer: I make no money and own nothing.

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**Midnight Faeries**

**Chapter 1**

It was an understatement to say that the War had changed things in the wizarding world. Everything was different—the government, the people, the cities, even Hogwarts—and Hermione wasn't entirely sure that she liked it.

Of course, many things were changed for the better. The Minister of Magic was not controlled by Death Eaters, magic folk did not feel frightened of each other because of blood status or political alignment, and no longer were shops boarded up because their owners had gone missing. But Hogwarts. Well, Hogwarts would never be the same without Dumbledore.

After the Final Battle, the school had been in ruins. Blood and crumbled stones had covered the lawn and the hallways, and the air was thick with dust. For days, that was how it remained. The dead were mourned, battle scars nursed, and still the school sat, untended. The blood dried and the dust settled. The hallways were quiet, the ghosts were withdrawn, and even Peeves was unnaturally somber. It should have been a time of celebration, a time to rejoice in the defeat of evil. Instead, it was a time of sadness.

And Hermione got tired of it. So three weeks after the final battle, she started cleaning. She dragged Harry and Ron with her to Hogwarts and they began the task of restoring the school to its original beauty. Each day they returned, and as word spread, others showed up to help. Because the school had been made by magic and damaged by magic, it was no easy task. However, thanks to the Hogwarts teachers and Hermione's memorization of _Hogwarts, A History_, new spells were woven and the school reassembled itself. It took four weeks to restore what one night had destroyed, but they did it.

And after they fixed the school, Headmistress McGonagall threw a celebration for everyone who had fought, or had known someone who had fought, or had heard about the fighting. That night, and into the next day, they partied, and they laughed and cried and celebrated and mourned, and they all vowed, in their own way, that they would never forget.

The following September, Hermione, Harry, Ron, and many of their classmates returned to Hogwarts to make up their seventh year. Ginny repeated her sixth year under teachers not corrupted by Voldemort, as did the rest of the students repeat the classes they had taken during the year of the War. The first year class was twice as large as usual, because of the new 11 year olds joining the repeating, now 12 year olds. But the school barely needed to expand to fit them, as the ranks of the older students had been thinned by the War.

It was an uneventful school year. No longer was there constant fear of facing Voldemort, and the golden trio relaxed in the quiet and the calm. Hermione studied, the boys sometimes did their homework, and they tried to laugh often. Usually, they succeeded. There were some days, however, when the past snuck up on them and remorse for the deaths overwhelmed them.

Slowly, they moved past sadness, and could smile again while thinking of those that had died in the War—Fred, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Colin, and all the others. So many, there were so many to miss. But Hermione, Harry, and Ron tried to remember the good times. They tried to be happy.

Hermione was glad when graduation came, and it was time to leave Hogwarts. She loved the castle, but it held too many memories for her. She could not walk through the front hall without remembering the time Fred and George had turned it into a swamp, or go to the Quidditch pitch without thinking of Colin taking pictures of Ron barfing up slugs. When she looked up at the teachers' table in the dining hall, she felt the absence of Dumbledore and Snape like a pain in her side. And every time she looked out across the grounds, she saw them covered in fighting, spells being thrown, and good people falling. No, Hogwarts held too many memories to be a comfort to her anymore.

She, Harry, and Ron stuck together after graduation. They roomed together in London while Harry and Ron went through their first year of Auror training and Hermione through her first year of Healer classes. They shared a nice three bedroom flat, and although Hermione and Ron did date, they all _stayed in their own rooms at night_, thank you very much.

Auror training took two years in school, and three more years apprenticed in the field before one could be called a fully fledged Auror. Harry and Ron were among about fifty starting at that time, coming from all over—America, France, Germany, Africa, Brazil, to name a few places. Britain's Auror training program was renowned for producing Aurors who were at the top of the field. Despite the long days and large amounts of homework the boys received, they needed no nagging from Hermione to keep up with their classes. This was something important to them.

Hermione, on the other hand, was on the fast track to becoming a certified Healer. While the training normally took four years of study and two of apprenticeship, Hermione had been invited to join a program—called Topson's Healer Training—that reduced the years of study by half, and guaranteed an apprentice position immediately after graduation. It was a lot of work, covering twice as much material each week as normal, but Hermione rejoiced in it. She was going to make a difference. She was determined to do some good in the world.

She was not the only Hogwarts graduate attending Topson's. Padma Patil had also been invited to join the program, and the girls became good friends. By the time they entered their second year of training, they had gathered around them some new faces as well. There was Jenn Tully, the American, Spencer Foster, the Australian, and Kyle Garden, their fellow Briton. The six studied together and, on the weekends, partied together, in addition to being fast friends.

Although Hermione loved Ron and Harry, she had realized during their first year of study that living with them was impractical for her. The flat was conveniently located for their commute to the Ministry's Auror school every day, but it was a rather complicated commute for getting to Topson's. Hermione had to take the Underground, and then a bus, and then walk another three blocks to get to class. The whole deal took between twenty and forty minutes, depending on which trains she caught and which buses she missed. Apparation wasn't a possibility because Topson's, like Hogwarts, had an anti-apparation charm on its premises, and it was located in a muggle business community. The program's head was working on finding a safe apparition point near the school, but until that happened, Hermione was dependent on mugle transportation and her own two feet.

So when Padma and Jenn suggested that for their second year, they share a townhouse two blocks from Topson's, Hermione agreed without a second thought. Ron and Harry would understand.

"Hermione!" Ron whined. "You can't move out, I'll never—I mean, we'll never get to see you anymore!"

Hermione continued to pack, undisturbed. "Oh, please, Ronald, I'll still be around! It's not like it's that far away, you'll just have to make an effort to come see me."

Ron frowned from her bedroom doorway. "I don't like that you won't be living with me anymore. What if you meet someone else?"

Hermione laughed. "Is that what you're worried about? Ron, you know that I love you."

Ron cracked a smile. "Yeah, I know," he said. "But I do like hearing you say it."

Hermione crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I love you," she said, and leaned in to kiss him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I don't want to see that!" Exclaimed Harry good-naturedly, appearing in the hallway. He grinned at them, and then motioned to Hermione's room. "Do you need any help packing, 'Mione?" He asked.

Hermione disentangled herself from Ron and glanced around her near-empty bedroom. "I think I've got it pretty much finished, but thank you for offering, Harry." She smiled at him, and then glared playfully at her boyfriend. "Ron here has been watching me pack for two hours, and he hasn't asked me once if I needed help."

Ron flushed. "I'm not going to help with something I'm against!" He defended himself, then turned to Harry. "Why are you being so supportive?"

Harry shrugged and pushed past Ron, entering the room and sitting on queen-sized bed. "Well, Hermione has always done what she wanted to do. She isn't going to stop just because I tell her to."

"Thank you, Harry! I'm glad someone understands." Hermione looked pointedly at Ron, whose frown deepened.

"But you think it's safe?" He demanded.

"Hermione is almost twenty, Ron, she can take care of herself." Harry stretched and lounged against the bed frame. "Besides, she's not even living alone, she'll be with Padma and Jenn, and you know Ginny will crash there whenever she's in town."

Ginny had graduated from Hogwarts just a few months ago, and had immediately begun training to become a Gringotts curse breaker. She was currently following Bill around India, but every now and then would turn up, exhausted, on their living room couch.

Ron frowned. He didn't like being proved wrong. "Well, yeah, but still. I don't like it."

Hermione patted his cheek affectionately. "You don't have to, dear," she told him. "I'm moving out anyway."

"Ron," Harry said as Hermione went back to packing, "have you looked at that case study Auror Klark gave us?"

"Oh, yeah, I did. I think the fact that the man had a broken arm pretty much screams that he was the criminal, don't you?"

"I'm not so sure, that could have been from the spell's resonance, too. What about the little girl?"

"The twelve year old? No way."

"Why not? She has a wand, and the case study told us that she'd been reading her father's spell books, and the fact that the control of the spell was so terrible definitely shows that—"

"Boys," Hermione interrupted. "I'm done, and I'm heading out. Are we still planning on dinner Thursday night?"

Ron grinned at this. "Yup! My parents are expecting us at 7."

Hermione smiled back. "Wonderful! I'll have to meet you there, I'm working from 4 to 6:30."

"At the dance studio still?" Harry asked. "I have to say, it's an odd side job for a Healer-in-training."

Hermione shrugged. "I love it, the kids are great. And the money is helpful, too." She pulled out her wand and sent her luggage ahead to her new home. She turned to the bed and raised an eyebrow at Harry, who jumped up off it, and the black and white quilted bed vanished seconds later.

Ron grinned. "You should give me a dancing lesson some time, Hermione."

Hermione grinned back, playfully. "You'd like that, wouldn't you."

The redhead nodded. "In fact, I would."

"No promises," Hermione told him, and then waved at both boys. "I'll see you soon, bye!" She said, and with a crack, she was gone.

Ron turned to Harry. "I hate it when she does that," he complained.

"Apparate away without notice?" Harry asked. Ron nodded. "Yeah," the bespectacled boy agreed. "Me too."

In her new townhouse a few miles away, Hermione leaned against a wall, exhausted. Ron and Harry were her best friends, and she hated keeping things from them. It was draining, holding her tongue all the time.

But Hermione had a secret, and she was not going to spill.

* * *

If I have any facts wrong or you see any plot holes, please let me know! I'm applying to colleges this year, and as I'm planning to major in English, writing fan fictions has become a way for me to practice and get feedback. I'll update when I can!

Dramione in the chapters to come! The title will be explained in Chapter 2.


	2. Chapter 2

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Midnight Faeries

**Chapter 2**

Draco Malfoy was back in Britain, and to be honest, he wasn't completely happy about it. After the war, he had elected not to go back to Hogwarts, and took his seventh year at a school of magic in America where very few people knew of his Death Eater past.

Draco was trying to put everything behind him. He wasn't proud of what he'd done, and he wanted to move past it. But that had been near impossible in Britain, where everyone he met thought he was evil. At a time, yes, he had agreed with the Dark Lord, but he had been young. Even Dumbledore had been interested in subduing muggles in his youth, and he grew up to become one of the greatest, kindest wizards of all time. Did Draco not get that chance?

By living in America, Draco was able to reinvent himself. He tried new things, met new people, and the experience of no one having expectations of him allowed him to open his mind. Because he was no longer at a school divided into houses, he made friends with all sorts of people. Because he was no longer expected to follow in his father's footsteps, he dappled in all different areas of study. He stopped identifying as Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, and became just Draco.

So to go back to the place where he had been labeled as an evil git was no vacation, and Draco did not return of his own free will. He returned for work.

After finishing his seventh year, Draco happened to meet a man named Wesley Wellington in the American equivalent of Diagon Alley—which was aptly named the Magic Mall. Wesley was a few years older than Draco, but the two were instant friends, regardless. The man was originally from South Korea, but had been adopted into an American family when he was a baby. He knew nothing about his biological parents, and since his adopted family had been muggle, he considered himself a magical anomaly.

"Who knows where I came from," he told Draco over Phoenix beer and burgers during their first meeting. "Maybe my birth family was magic, maybe not. I'll never know, because I was left on the police station doorstep as a baby. Weren't my adopted parents surprised when I turned the cat green at age eight!"

Draco was fascinated. Because of his pure-blooded heritage and upbringing, he had always struggled to accept that ancestry was not important to other wizards and witches. "But there are some very powerful Korean wizarding families," he commented to Wesley. "Are you not interested to find out if you belong to one of them?"

Wesley shrugged. "If I did want to find my birth family, it wouldn't matter to me if they were important or not. I would want to find them because they were my family. But whoever they were, they abandoned me for a reason, and I grew up in a loving family and went to a great school. I turned out well, in my opinion. I don't really need to know who my biological parents are."

Wesley wasn't lying when he told Draco he'd turned out well. The older man was a wandmaker, and although he had only recently begun selling his wands when they met, he was already well respected in the field. Because Draco had no plans for a career or further schooling, Wesley invited the younger man to work with him.

"I could always use the extra help, and you're smart enough that you might actually be able to do more than just manual labor." Wesley smiled. "And when you discover what you really want to go into, I won't hold it against you for leaving. Just work for me until you get bored."

Draco agreed, and after a year of collecting wood, harvesting and buying various wand cores, running trivial errands, and manning and organizing the store, W.W. Wands, he still wasn't tired of it. In fact, he loved it. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined himself working for a wandmaker, but he found that he fit into the role perfectly. Wesley had even said that Draco would soon be able to learn the process of actually making the wands—and since making the perfect wands was so secretive a procedure, the Briton understood this to be a great honor.

However, when Wesley announced that they were going on a business trip to Britain, Draco was not impressed.

"Whyy?" he whined as the men worked to close up the shop for their trip. "I don't need to go, I can stay here and mind the shop! Why do you need me to come?"

"Draco," Wesley answered patiently, "I've never been to Britain before. You grew up there. You know how to get around, where the wizarding communities are, and where we can get a good cup of Phoenix beer, cheap. You're going to be my guide as I scope out the English magic scene."

Draco scratched his head. "They don't serve Phoenix beer in Britain. That's an American thing, we have Firewhiskey instead."

"Alcohol! I'm not picky." Wesley conceded.

"I haven't been there in three years, things have probably changed a lot."

"I doubt they've changed where the wizarding market is held. What's it called? Diagonally?"

"Diagon Alley."

"Right, that."

"Yeah, but still. You don't need me. You can take care of yourself." Draco finished putting away the wand boxes and turned to face his boss. "I'm done here, what's left?"

"We also need to lock up all of the materials—the wood and cores and potion ingredients." Wesley looked up from the paperwork he'd been working on. "But don't go do that just yet. Draco, what's really wrong?"

Draco leaned against the wall across from Wesley's desk with a sigh. "Nothing. Well, no, that's not true. I'm just worried."

Wesley put down his pen and focused his attention on his friend. "Worried about what?"

"Returning," Draco admitted. "I haven't been back to Britain, to London, since the War. People won't have forgotten the part that I played in it."

"But you're a good guy," Wesley said. "Don't people know that?"

"Ha. No. They see me as that Malfoy brat, the Death Eater." Draco played with the cuff of his left sleeve, buttoning and unbuttoning it anxiously.

"That might be who you were, but it isn't who you are." Wesley leaned back in his chair. "Hold your head high and treat everyone there the way you treat people here. Show them that you've changed with your actions."

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "I just hope they don't hex me as soon as they set eyes on me."

Wesley laughed and twirled his wand, showering his paperwork with blue sparks. "Don't worry Draco, I'll protect you."

Draco grinned, "Thanks, Wes, but that would make them hate me more."

Wesley pouted, and then smiled. "Now get back to work, slave, we have a portkey to catch!"

* * *

Being back in London was just as terrible as Draco had thought it would be. He and Wes took their portkey from their shop in America to the Ministry of Magic's official transatlantic portkey point, which was pretty much just an empty room on one of the Ministry's higher floors. When they checked in with the witch behind the desk outside the door, her eyes bugged at Draco's name. Thankfully, however, she made no comment.

As they were leaving the Ministry—they flooed to the Leaky Cauldron—Draco's white-blond hair and tall stature drew stares from those who knew the features. He heard whispers as they passed people he had once known, but he ignored them and increased his pace. By the time they reached the giant fireplaces just off the Ministry's entrance hall, Wesley was struggling to keep up.

"Geez, Draco, cool it, would you?" The American leaned against the fireplace mantle to catch his breath. He glanced around, observing his surroundings. "My first look at magical London, and magical London's looking at me. Or, rather, you."

Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I told you it wouldn't go well. Can we just get out of here already?"

Wes straightened up and squared his shoulders. "Sure. The Leaky Cauldron?"

Draco nodded, and one after the other, they stepped into the green flames.

* * *

"Draco Malfoy!" boomed a voice across the murky barroom. Draco cringed, but turned.

"Hi, Blaise," he said to the man striding toward him. "Long time, no see."

"You're telling me!" said Blaise Zabini, and Draco was engulfed in a hug that was as manly as hugs get. "Two full years. And you never returned any of my letters. I have half a mind to be angry with you."

"Blaise," Draco said, "you never sent me any letters."

Blaise grinned. "And that's why it was only half a mind." He noticed Wesley then, standing off to the side. "Who's your friend?"

"Blaise Zabini, this is Wesley Wellington," Draco introduced. "Wesley is my boss in America, he's a wandmaker. I'm showing him around London."

"Pleased to meet you." Wesley smiled, and the men shook hands. "It's good to see that Draco actually has friends here in Britain, he makes it seem like everyone hates him."

Blaise grinned. "Well, everyone does hate him. I just don't hate him as much as everyone else." He laughed. "Draco was always pretty withdrawn in school. He didn't make it easy to get to know him, but he was from a prominent family, and I was from a prominent family, and we were both Slytherins and we roomed together and had classes together. It was hard to _not_ become friends."

Wesley laughed. "Your Draco seems like a different guy from the one I know."

Blaise smiled and looked at his old schoolmate. "Is that so? Then I suppose we should get to know each other again. I'm going out tonight, would you two care to join me?"

Wesley and Draco exchanged a look. "Where, exactly, are you going out to?" asked Draco skeptically.

"Oh, you don't know it," said Blaise confidently. "I only found out about it a few weeks ago, it's completely underground." He glanced around to make sure that they weren't overheard, but the chatter and clinking of the bar's patrons masked their conversation. "It's called The Midnight Club. Come along with me, gentlemen, and I assure you that you won't be disappointed."

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Thank you for reading! More action next chapter, and more explanations. I'm really still in the introducing-the-characters-and-the-time-and-the-setting phase, but the plot will move along faster soon. Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey all, just a warning, this is when the M rating starts to come in. Not too badly this chapter, but still, it's there.**

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**Midnight Faeries**

**Chapter 3**

Blaise told the men to meet him in front of the Leaky Cauldron—on the muggle side—at 11:30 sharp.

"At night?" Draco asked incredulously. "Where on earth are you taking us, Blaise?"

Blaise laughed. "You don't get out much anymore, do you Draco? I'm taking you somewhere amazing. Just wait. I'll see you tonight." He waved, and left them wondering.

Wesley grinned at Draco once they were alone. "I like your friend. He meets us in a bar, tells me your life story, and then invites us to a nightclub. I think we're going to have fun tonight." He yawned widely. "But right now, let's go check in. Transatlantic portkey always makes me tired…"

Draco read in a chair by the window as Wes napped. Well, mostly Draco pretended to read, and stared out the window into the city he had once called his home. He felt like a child again.

Wesley woke at about six, and the men decided to eat out—the pea soup that the bar keep had offered them looked as if it had a mind of its own. Draco would have been happy to go into the muggle city and find a restaurant there, but Wes insisted that they were in England to scope out wizarding London, and scope they would. So Draco reluctantly led his boss into Diagon Alley.

They ate in a small restaurant where Draco asked for a booth in the corner, and managed to hide from anyone who might have recognized him. Wesley ordered them Phoenix beer, and the younger man again had to explain to the American that they drank Firewhiskey in wizarding Britain.

"Whoa! That's stronger than I expected," Wesley exclaimed after his first sip.

Draco took a drink out of his own glass, and was surprised at how familiar the alcohol felt as it burned down his throat. "You get used to it," he informed his friend.

"I'm not complaining," Wes said and demonstrated the truth of his words by taking another large sip. "It's refreshing. But I think that since we're going out tonight, we should stick to one glass each."

Draco chuckled. "Ah, but I'm sure that whatever Blaise has planned, it will be much more enjoyable if we're already drunk."

Wes frowned at the drink in his hands. "I don't like getting drunk," he commented.

"I know, Wes," Draco assured him. "I've known you for over a year, I know how much you like keeping your head. Just order a Butterbeer for your next round. But don't mind me as I indulge in stronger alcohols, because I have no doubt that this night is going to get worse before it gets better."

Draco was, unfortunately, correct. As the men were leaving the restaurant, they ran into some people whom the Brit had hoped to avoid.

"Malfoy? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Language, Weasley," Draco found himself drawling. It was too easy to slip back into the attitude he had worn in his school days. "I was eating, obviously. Now I'm walking."

Ronald Weasley hadn't changed much, in Draco's eyes. Still tall, awkward, and red-headed, though he might have put on a bit of muscle. The man beside him, however, Draco might not have recognized if not for the scar and green eyes.

"Potter, is that you?" He inquired. "My, you've changed."

Harry Potter drew himself up a little taller and shrugged. "It's been a while," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I believe I already answered that question," Draco said distastefully. He had always hated repeating himself.

"Don't play dumb, _Ferret_, you know what he means," Weasley baited.

Draco found himself sneering. "I believe I have just as much of a right to be in London as you have, _Weasel_."

"I think most of the wizarding population would disagree," Weasley retorted. "Shall I ask them? Perhaps the Ministry would like to know?"

"The Ministry knows I'm here, idiot, and they don't give a fuck." Draco's voice held a bit of his old venom in it. Wes, out of place and American, stood next to him and watched the interaction, unconcerned.

"Yeah, well you good for nothing—"

"Ron, give it a rest," Potter interjected. "I don't want to deal with this tonight." Weasley hovered between his anger toward Draco and his friendship with Potter for a moment, before nodding reluctantly.

"Fine," the red-head said. "Let's go home."

Draco bit back a snotty insult, and scowled instead. He wasn't surprised at the dark look that the Weasley threw him as he turned and left without a backwards glance, but he _was_ startled by Potter's resigned sigh.

"Sorry about him," Harry said. He nodded at Wesley. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh," Draco said. "Wesley Wellington, Harry Potter."

"Hello," Wesley said, and Potter's eyebrows rose.

"American?" He asked. The other two men nodded. "Well, now we know where Malfoy has been for the past two years. I hope your visit is enjoyable, and I promise, most Britons are more polite than Ron is." Potter gave them a brief smile, and then hurried to catch up with his friend.

"Well," Wesley said. "That was odd."

Draco nodded. "You have no idea."

* * *

When Draco and Wesley met Blaise in front of the Leaky Cauldron at 11:30, neither were drunk. Surprisingly, Blaise wasn't either.

"You're going to be glad you came," he told them eagerly as they strode down the streets of muggle London. "But I have to warn you, this isn't a wizard club. It's owned by a witch, but a lot of the people who go there are muggles. So, just, keep your wands in your pants."

Draco and Wes exchanged raised eyebrows behind Blaise's back.

"Where, exactly, are we going?" Wesley voiced the question that had been hovering between them.

"I told you, The Midnight Club," Blaise said impatiently. "Come on, this way."

He walked up a set of stairs toward the door of what appeared to be an abandoned townhouse. When he reached it, he knocked, and it opened from the inside. Blaise beckoned his companions forward, and they followed him suspiciously.

A big man stood just inside—whether he was wizard or muggle apparently didn't matter, because he would win in any fight regardless. He gestured for them to continue down the hallway, and closed the door behind them.

As they approached the end of the corridor, Draco noticed that the walls on either side of them were lined with pictures—muggle pictures—of the same eight girls. The girls posing, caught unaware, with others, eating, dancing, laughing—pictures that spanned the years, the ones closest to the front door paintings, then photographs in black and white, and then some in sepia, and then in color from Polaroid's, and closer to the end of the hall, high definition photographs that hadn't had time to gather dust.

The pictures struck Draco as strange for two reasons. One, the women seemed to not age, staying about nineteen or twenty even as the styles of portrait passed centuries. And two, every single person in every single picture was wearing a mask.

Blaise opened the door when he reached the end of the corridor, and began to descend the staircase that lay behind it. Wesley, second in line, hesitated at the top of the stairs.

Blaise turned back to check that the other men were following, and paused when he saw that they had stopped. "Well, come on," he said. "Too late to turn back now."

Although that wasn't a comforting statement, Wesley began the descent anyway, Draco right behind him.

At the bottom of the stairs was a landing, small and square with another door across the room. It was lined with bins, and Blaise reached into one of them and pulled out a piece of scarlet cloth.

"Well, go on, then," he said. He unfolded the cloth and pressed it to his face, and Draco realized that it was, in fact, a mask.

He and Wesley exchanged a glance, but obeyed. Draco found a plain black mask, and Wes a deep blue one. Holding their chosen masks in their hands, they looked at Blaise.

"Are you going to explain this?" Draco asked darkly.

"It's just what they do here," Blaise shrugged. "Everyone wears a mask, no one asks names. It's underground, and they want to keep it that way. I told you a witch owns it, but I don't know who she is." He gestured to the masks the other men held. "The masks have a sticking charm on them, only the person who put the mask on can remove it. The muggles just think it's some sort of trick. Put them on, I want to go in."

Draco hesitated, and then pushed the mask against his face. It covered his eyebrows, cheekbones, and the bridge of his nose. It wasn't much of a disguise, but he figured that it was better than nothing.

He turned to Wesley, and the American had masked himself as well. The dark blue mask did little to disguise the man's Asian ancestry, but it didn't really matter as no one in London knew him, anyway. The door opened at the top of the stairs, and as some strangers approached, Blaise ushered his companions through the one final door.

Draco heard Wesley gasp beside him as they entered the room. It was huge—the ceiling was soft, covered in purple cloth some meters above their heads, the floor was carpeted in red where they stood but a silver dance floor could be seen through the crowd, a bar lined the back wall, and tables clustered in front of what could only be a stage, hidden by silver satin curtains. Music pumped through the air, deep and sensual. The lights were low, colored, in some places red, some blue, some green and purple and yellow. Blaise led Draco and Wesley through the crowd and sat them at a table in front of the stage.

"I'm going to go get us some drinks," he said, and abandoned them.

"Draco," Wesley commented, "have you noticed that there are no women here, at all?"

Draco looked around and saw that it was true. But before he could respond, the music and the lights dimmed, and a spotlight made visible a woman on the stage.

"Welcome!" she called, and the club quieted. The woman wore a mask herself, an elaborate accessory, white with golden feathers. Her black and gold evening dress reached the floor, and white gloves covered her arms up to her elbows.

"That's the owner," Blaise whispered as he slipped into his seat, placing drinks in front of the other two men. Wesley grabbed his and clung to it with surprising enthusiasm.

"I'm pleased to have you all here tonight," the owner continued. "I know that you're all here for the show, so have no worries, it will start presently. I have just a quick announcement." She looked out over the audience—most of them seated, some at the bar—and smiled intimately. "We've _missed_ you." The club cheered wildly, and she sauntered off the stage.

"I don't get it," Draco said to Blaise as the lights dimmed further and a new, smoother music started.

"They're closed Sunday to Tuesday," Blaise explained. "It's Wednesday."

"Blaise," Wes began, but he was unable to finish, because just then the curtains opened and the music and crowd excitement interrupted him.

On the stage were eight chairs, and in the eight chairs sat eight women. Not just any eight women, but the eight women from the pictures in the hall, eight masked, beautiful women. And they were _very_ scantily dressed.

"Blaise," Draco yelled over the music and the crowd, "is this a _strip club?_"

Blaise grinned victoriously, "Hell yes! But a high class strip club, mind you." He ignored Wes, who was slowly turning red under his mask, and pointed at the girls on stage, who had begun to dance. "They're the main act. Those girls are the reason that this club is so popular." He pointed to the girl on the far left, with long, straight chestnut hair and a baby blue mask. "That's Angel," he said. Then, "That's Kitten," a girl with black curls and a red mask, "Princess," golden hair down to her shoulder blades and a dark green mask, "Baby Girl," a soft pink mask and cropped black hair, "Belle," a light purple mask and short brown hair, "Sunshine," flowing blonde hair and a white mask, "Love," long brown curls and a golden mask, "and Sugar," a black mask and dark red hair.

Draco frowned as the lights on stage rose slowly, slightly angry with his former classmate. And then the girls moved, and he almost forgot who he was. Eight figures danced, all skin and lace and beauty, and as Draco watched he found that the temperature in the club was steadily getting hotter and his muggle clothes steadily tighter. He glanced at his companions to distract himself. Blaise was watching the women hungrily, but Wes was trying to drown himself in his drink.

"Wes, we can go back if you want, we don't have to stay," Draco told his American friend over the bass beat. "I can take you back to the hotel, if..."

"No, I can find my way back," Wes said and stood up from the table. "I'll… I'll see you later, Draco." He hurried away, crowd parting around him, before Draco could get another word in. Blaise didn't notice, and so seemingly without another option, Draco turned back to the stage.

Wait, when had they taken that off? He hadn't known it was possible to get more naked without actually revealing anything! Draco felt a blush creep up his neck, and he downed his drink, and then what was left of Wes's. He was definitely going to need another.

When the girls completed their chair dance and strutted off stage, Draco headed straight for the bar.

"What do you have that's strong?" He asked the bar keep, who looked at him amusedly.

"First time here?" the man asked. At Draco's nod, he poured him a clear drink. "Here, try this."

Draco gulped it and nearly choked. "What _is_ that?" He demanded. The bar keeper laughed.

"Try it again, it's better after the first drink," he said. Draco took a small sip, and found that the man was right, this time, it felt cool and smooth going down his throat, and settled in his stomach with a nice tingle. "It's the owner's secret recipe," the bar keeper conspired. "I don't know what it is any more than you do, but it's the club favorite."

"Thank you," Draco said, and went to pay for his drink. He thought for a second, and then decided, "You know, why not make that two."

When he sat back down at the table, Blaise beamed at him. "You brought me a drink? How thoughtful of you, Draco!"

Draco scowled. "It's not for you, you dolt. I need it."

Blaise shrugged. "I thought it was too unlike you." He glanced around. "What happened to your American friend? Wesley?"

"He left," Draco said shortly.

"Why? He didn't like the show?"

"Blaise, Wesley is gay."

Blaise was stumped for a moment. "Oh." He gave Draco an apologetic smile. "I wouldn't have brought him here if I'd known it would make him uncomfortable."

"Yeah, well you didn't exactly give us any clues about what this place was going to be like," Draco vented moodily. He sipped his drink.

"Ahhh, but _you_ love it, don't you?" Blaise asked eagerly. "I knew you would, when I found this place I thought to myself, 'If only Draco still partied with me,' and then when I saw you today I _knew_ I had to bring you, and—"

"Blaise!" Draco interrupted. "I do _not_ love this place."

Blaise's face fell. "Well, that's probably because you got uptight in America." He frowned and leaned back in his chair. "What _happened_ to you, Draco?"

Draco downed the rest of the clear, cool alcoholic drink. "I straightened out, that's what."

"Did you straighten out, or are you gay now, too?"

Draco glared. "That was offensive, Blaise."

Blaise's frown deepened. "Wow, Draco. All rules and respect now, are we? What happened to your attitude? Your spirit?"

Draco stood up and grasped his remaining drink. "That's it, I'm leaving."

Blaise pulled the blonde back into his seat. "Now, now, don't be rash. I'm sorry, okay? I'm just trying to understand."

"You've lost your tact," Draco scowled.

Blaise grinned. "Ah, there you are. I've missed your wit, Draco."

"My wit?" Draco asked scathingly. "You've missed my _wit_?"

"Aw, fine, I've missed the rest of you, too." Blaise smiled happily. "It wasn't the same at Hogwarts without you around to make fun of Weasel and Pothead with me."

That distracted Draco, and he ran a hand through his hair. "I saw them today, in Diagon Alley. It was…weird."

"You mean terrible? Did you curse them? Please say you did."

"No, I didn't curse them—"

"THEY'RE BACK!" Blaise completely forgot about Draco as the eight women retook the stage, and after his initial annoyance, the blonde couldn't blame his friend.

The women were addicting. As Draco nursed his alcohol, watching the dancers, he felt himself relaxing. Whether it was an effect of the drink or the club, or a combination of both, he wasn't sure, but his worries left him and he began to freely enjoy the experience.

The dance, this time, was themed. All of the girls wore wings that matched their masks, along with mesh and lace and silk lingerie—or, that was what Draco thought of it as—and they told the story of lonely faeries. They told stories in their movements, the tilt of their hips, the curve of their lips, the length of their legs. This dance was sexy in its undertones, in the sadness of it, the connection Draco couldn't help but make with the dancers. One, in particular, seemed to be speaking directly to him.

"Who's the one in the green again?" He asked Blaise when the dance was done. The mood of the club was slightly subdued in the aftermath of emotion.

"Green? That's Princess." Blaise smiled. "Why?"

Draco shrugged. "It seemed like she was dancing for _me_."

Blaise nodded. "They're talented, these girls. They really know how to make you love them."

"Do you have a favorite?" Draco asked, curious and aware that he had just revealed more of himself than he had intended. He hated being the one at a disadvantage.

Blaise smiled cunningly. "Ohh, no, I'm not telling. Not yet."

Draco grinned. "I bet it's one of the black-haired ones. You always went after the black-haired ones in school."

Blaise reddened, but he didn't falter. "I'm not telling."

Draco laughed, his earlier anger gone. "Fine."

They bought more drinks, and watched the girls dance. Every dance, every move, Draco felt himself pulled more towards the one they called Princess, gold and green, long hair and smooth skin. He wanted to meet her, to know her. To dance with her.

He drank some more of that smooth clear liquid, and smiled at the stage.

When the dancers were done, it was just past one in the morning. Draco stood up and staggered. "Oh," he said. "That drink was strong."

Blaise grinned up from where he lounged in his seat. "Yeah, it is. You get used to it."

"Are we leaving?" Draco looked around, and found that the world spun more quickly than he was accustomed to.

"No!" Blaise laughed. "Now the dancing starts."

"What?" Draco asked. Wasn't the dancing over?

"I mean, this is when the nightclub opens. It's a strip club until the act is over, and then more people come and it's the best dance club in the country."

"Why's that?"

"Probably the alcohol," Blaise said. "I think it has magic in it, but I'm not sure."

Draco thought about that, and it hurt his head. "Probably," he agreed.

And then he noticed the girls. Not the eight girls from the stage, but other girls, normal girls, who were entering the club, all wearing masks and party clothes.

Blaise followed his gaze. "The girls know when to come for the party," he said. "And they drink free, so they like it. Everyone here knows how to get down. No one as well as the Faeries, but then, they're practically Goddesses."

"The Faeries?" Draco inquired.

"The girls from the show. They're called the Midnight Faeries."

"Do they come and dance with everyone?" Draco asked hopefully.

"Not usually," Blaise said. "Not on Wednesdays."

Draco's face fell at this, but he was a happy drunk. "Let's go get some girls," he grinned, and like schoolboys the men entered the dance floor.

Draco danced and partied and drank for what felt like forever, and then he started falling down. Although normally that wouldn't have stopped him, falling down reminded him of Wesley which reminded him that he wasn't in London for vacation, and that sobered him up just enough to get out the door and leave his mask behind.

Once on the streets, Draco realized that he needed to lie down. He stumbled into an alley and leaned against a wall, because even drunk he wanted to stay off the dirty ground. He leaned for a few moments, and then decided he was able to stand up long enough to make his way a little further towards the Leaky Cauldron.

_I should apparate,_ he thought, and tried to concentrate. He spun around on the spot like always, and fell over sideways into a muggle car. _Oh._ _That won't work._

Draco stood up again and took a few steps. "Malfoy?" Someone asked from behind him.

He turned around quickly, tried to draw his wand, got tangled in his dress shirt and tripped, and then—

Nothing.


End file.
